


Still My Guitar Gently Weeps

by nitpickyabouttrains



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Dear Yuletide Recipient, F/M, I hope you like it!, You said you wanted angst, Yuletide 2013, Yuletide Fill!, gloomy sad feels, well here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William was sitting on the couch, on the edge, leaning forward over a guitar on his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still My Guitar Gently Weeps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LorelaiSquared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorelaiSquared/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide to [LorelaiSquared](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LorelaiSquared/pseuds/LorelaiSquared)
> 
> And as ever, this was beta-ed by the helpful and fantastic [angelheadedhipster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster)

After knocking twice, Lizzie decided not to wait anymore. There was a chill in the air, the wind was beginning to gust and the sky was filling with dark clouds. A storm was brewing. Lizzie was eager to get inside, out of the cold, before the rain came. So she took the spare key out from where it was hidden, and let herself into William’s house.

 

Immediately, once the door was open, Lizzie understood why no one had answered her knocking. The house was filled with music. It was all there was, nothing else could be heard. Wall to wall, there was only the sound of an acoustic guitar playing out a melody.

 

There was no voice, there was no other instrument, just one single guitar, playing loudly. But the sound it created was incredible. It was huge, it seemed to take up space, have mass and weight. It was there, in the hall, throughout the house, a physical presence. And for a moment, it stopped Lizzie in her tracks. She was amazed. Where was this beautiful music coming from? Who was playing it? It was not a recording, she was sure of that much, it was too raw.

 

Lizzie followed the playing farther into the house, hoping to find its source. She wandered through the first floor, all  the way to the back, as the music got louder and louder. Until she was stopped in front of William’s study, all the way in the back, where it seemed to be originating from.

 

Slowly, she inched open the door, to peak in.

 

The lights in the study were off, but there was a fire lit in the grate. It threw a soft warm glow around the room, casting corners and crevasse into shadow and dark.

 

William was sitting on the couch, on the edge, leaning forward over a guitar on his knees. By his feet sat an amp, plugged in and practically glowing, emitting the sound which filled the house.His collar was open, his tie pulled loose and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked disheveled, which surprised her - he always seemed so put together.

 

The way he was holding his head, tilted forward, angled toward the instrument, it took Lizzie a second to realize his eyes were closed. Light from the fire hit his face, making the top of his bent head glow golden. He was pale, so pale that the lids of his eyes seemed almost translucent, and Lizzie could have sworn she could see his eyes moving back and forth underneath, to and fro, as if reading from an unseen music sheet.

 

Along the neck of the guitar, William’s hand moved deftly. Forming chords, hitting notes. His other hand strummed and plucked, a coordinated effort to create the amazing sound she heard. It was not work, he was not thinking, it just seemed to flow out of him.

 

Lizzie paused for a second, just listening, just taking it in. She realized that she did not know the tune he was playing. It was not a song she was familiar with. But that did not matter.

 

On the couch, William played on; he did not notice her. The song seemed to be reaching its coda, and his fingers slowed. They stilled on the guitar, but stayed there, not moving, as if he was frozen. Then he let out a single shutter of a breath, which seemed to shake his whole body, his entire being. It almost sounded like he was crying. Lizzie looked closer, in the poor lighting, and saw that there were wet streaks on his cheeks. Tracks where tears had made their way.

 

Then William opened his eyes.

 

“That was beautiful,” Lizzie said quietly, not wanting to break the spell he had cast over the room.

 

“Lizzie…” he practically whispered her name, looking up at her with large wet sapphire eyes, “I did not hear you come in.”

 

Lizzie pushed off from the doorway and took a few steps further into the room, to his side. She reached down and placed a hand on his cheek, wiping away a tear which was resting on his cheekbone. “You’re crying,” she said softly, carefully.

 

“I did not realize,” William said. He did not move to stop her, or to wipe off the other side of this face. Instead he just looked at her, met her eyes, looking for something.

 

In all her life, Lizzie had never cried without knowing it. She was not sure she understood what William could mean. But he had been so immersed in his song, in playing, Lizzie suspected the rest of the world must have just fallen away. Even himself. Lizzie did not want to push the subject, not now, when there was something else on her mind. “I didn’t know you played guitar,” she said.

 

“I don’t,” he said, turning his head away from her, to his lap, where the instrument in question lay.

 

Lizzie shook her head at what was clearly not true. “Then what was that? It sounded like you can play to me.”

 

“I can,” William agreed, clearing his throat, his voice going back to its normal strength. “But I do not, not anymore.” He was looking only at his lap now, at the instrument, his fingers playing lightly across the wooden face.

 

“Why not?” Lizzie asked.

 

He was quiet for a few seconds. The silence seemed to stretch and fill the room. Where there had once been music, now there was not a sound at all. Even the fire did not crackle. Everything was still and Lizzie could feel it, pressing down on her, waiting for him to speak. Their relationship was still very new, very young, and she hoped she had not gone too far, past what he was willing to share with her.

 

“When I was young,” he said finally, “I hated storms. I was scared of the thunder, of the lightning. So when the rain came, my mother would take out her guitar and play, to drown out the sounds of the weather outside.” His voice caught for just a second, and he pause to clear it,  “It was always the same song.”

 

“The song you were just playing,” Lizzie concluded.

 

“She taught it to me,” William said, “when I got older, after Gigi was born. We would play it together when it rained, even after I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

 

Lizzie did not want to push, she did not know what to say. It was so rare to hear him talk about his parents. She thought back to when they had been living at Netherfield together, and could not remember him having a guitar. “So then you only play,” Lizzie reasoned, “when it rains?”

 

“After she was gone,” William said, with a slow shake of his head, “I stopped, for a long time. But sometimes, on a day like today, when there is a storm coming in, it’s all I can think about.”

He turned his head to the window, where the wind was whipping the branches of trees and a drizzle had begun to hit the glass. Lizzie followed his eyes, to see what he saw outside, all grey and clouds, weather which promised to get worse. Inside it was warm and the fire danced merrily in the grate. She reached down and placed her hand on top of his, on the guitar, stilling his motions. His hand curled up, entwining their fingers.


End file.
